Fic: 'Hero' (6/6)
Here's the last of Hero. Again, many thanks to my wonderful beta reader, hereswith, and also to all of you who have been reading along for the last twelve days.
Chapter One: Caught Out
Chapter Two: Pirate Princeling
Chapter Three: A Disparity of Circumstances
Chapter Four: Vile Misfortune
Chapter Five: Hero's Choice
~ Epilogue ~
The execution was to take place two days hence. Only two more days of pain, cold, filth, and bad food, and the plague of just thinking. Could he or Father have done anything different? Was there any way they could have suspected the traitorous perfidy of the Spanish? Claiming the island was theirs, that they had some right to the land, to the plantation his father had built with endless toil and care. To their home. Gilbert was glad his mother had been dead and gone these three years, for surely the events of the last month would have killed her. As they would likely kill his father. If he was even still alive.
Gilbert sighed, and shifted in an effort to ease his half-healed back, and looked out through the small barred window, high up on the wall, through which cold air entered and the stars could be seen. Perhaps he'd be up there among the stars, soon. Or with his mother. He thought about praying, but couldn't make his mind turn to it, not when the stones bit into him, the unfortunate in the next cell moaned in distress, and a rat slipped from the crack in the wall to lap at the slop his gaolers had left him for dinner.
He closed his eyes on his tiny, ugly world, and, after a long while, slept.
*
There was a voice, making demands. Demanding... him.
Gilbert's eyes flicked open. It was morning, but only dull gray light shone in through the window -- there was fog outside, all too common in this area of the coast of Cuba. And the voice was growing irate.
"Insolent dog! If you impede me, the Viceroy will surely hear of it. This young Pennistone -- barbaric name! -- he is to be taken to Havana for questioning. The papers are in order, you said it yourself. The Viceroy is fully capable of seeing his sentence carried out -- after we extract the information we need. Come to Havana, if you insist on witnessing the execution."
There was some argument, the exchange between the newcomer and the resident gaoler becoming too rapid for Gil to follow, though it steadily increased in volume. Gilbert had learned some Spanish, a skill he'd needed to facilitate communication with their erstwhile buyers, but the Viceroy's man was speaking the pure Castilian and was more difficult to understand. He must be someone important. And questioning: a frisson of fear swept through Gil. The Inquisition was yet a fixture with the Spanish.
The argument subsided, the gaoler yielding reluctantly, and several sets of booted feet sounded their owners' approach down the stone corridor. Gil struggled to stand: they would not find him languishing, no matter what. Lord, he was sore, though, and he still felt a faint chill and ache of fever. But he forced himself to stand straight and tall. His clothes might be ragged and stained, he might be thin and filthy, he might still be barely seventeen, but he would show them how a man faces his enemies... even unto death.
*
The Viceroy's man was very odd. Gilbert studied him as the open carriage made its way across the yard, out the gates of the fortress, and thence slowly along the road through the little town, crowded just now, for it was market day. Gil was seated between the man's two silent guardsmen, his wrists tied before him, and Don Ascención had the entire wide seat opposite. He looked a right villain, too handsome, too sure of himself, a supercilious smile curving his lips and a glint in his black eyes as he lounged, studying Gil in return. He wasn't a big man, no more than medium height, but he was well-built, slim and wiry. He cut a striking figure in his elegant black clothes, adorned with lace, diamonds, and gold, and Gil suspected that the jewel-hilted sword he wore was more than just an ornament. He also wore a wig, long, black and curling, very unusual for a Spaniard. The word fop came strongly to mind.
Fop or no, he was still dangerous, and when they finally reached the city gates and turned south onto the coast road, rather than north, toward Havana, Gilbert frowned. After a moment said in his best Spanish, "Where are you taking me? Havana lies in the other direction."
"Ah! You are a bright boy. Too bright for your own good. Be silent. You will know where we go, presently."
Gil's eyebrows twitched together. Where could they be taking him, and for what purpose? The carriage was moving more quickly now, the crowds coming to market thinning rapidly. Soon he would be entirely alone with this man and his underlings. He was suddenly aware of how very helpless he was, and turned his head so that Don Ascención might not see his fear, staring blindly through the fog toward the sound of the waves on the rocks.
Another few minutes passed in silence, and they left behind the last of the straggling market-goers. The coachman cracked his whip over the horses and they broke into a brisk trot. The carriage was well-sprung, but there was increased movement even so, jarring Gil's back. He shifted, sitting up straighter in an effort to ease it.
But then Don Ascención leaned forward, and nodded to the guard on Gil's right side. To Gil's surprise, the guard got up, and the two switched places. Gil shrank away as the Don settled close to him, and then gasped when the man produced a knife, shining and wicked sharp!
"What are you doing?" Gil demanded, hair on end, voice squeaking shamefully.
For the first time, Don Ascención grinned, showing teeth that were very white... and gold! And to Gil's astonishment, he said in English, "Do you not know me, Gilbert Pennistone? Jamie thought you would." And then he took the knife and slit the cords that bound Gilbert's wrists.
Gil stared. "Jack Sparrow?" he breathed.
Jack Sparrow rolled his eyes, and said, "It's Captain Sparrow. Captain." He looked sadly at his cohorts. "Why do they never remember?"
*
The rest of the journey was like a dream for Gil. The fog began to burn off, and the horses moved along even more rapidly.
"Just hang on," said Captain Sparrow. "We'll have you off Spanish land in a trice. Plenty of time to talk when we get to the Pearl. "
Gil nodded, too overcome to speak anyway.
A few minutes later, the carriage slowed and they rounded a corner and stopped, overlooking a secluded inlet. The Black Pearl lay anchored in the middle of it, like a ship from a fairy tale, a creature of mist and shadow. Gil couldn't help his gasp at the sight. This was real, he was among friends. "Jamie's down there?" he managed to croak.
"Aye," said Jack, "and lots of others you'll remember. And a few you'll be meeting for the first time."
The driver was paid off and drove away. There was a steep, narrow path down the cliff face to the beach which they descended carefully. A longboat was waiting, and before he knew it, Gil was climbing the Jacob's ladder up the Pearl's side, to Jamie, who was waiting for him at the top.
Grown up, he was, but not grown out of friendship. Jamie threw his arms around Gil, pulling him close, and Gil ignored the discomfort and returned the favor. "Gil!" said Jamie, "I was afraid we might be too late."
"Careful of his back," said Jamie's uncle, stepping onto the deck behind Gil.
Jamie released Gil, and frowned. "Why?"
"Flogged," Jack said shortly.
Jamie looked horrified -- and angry. "Why?"
Gil shrugged, wincing. "Insolence, they said. I wasn't very tractable. It was only a dozen, but it cut me up more than you'd expect."
A familiar voice spoke. "We'll take a look at that in the surgery, get you fixed up, eh lad?"
"Mr. Gibbs!"
"Aye!" said Jamie. "And here's someone else you know." He drew forward a tall, dusky-skinned lad with speaking eyes and a smile that held a hint of uncertainty.
Gil gasped. "Paki?"
Jamie broke in. "He's 'Paul' now. Gentleman Joe said it was safer."
"Except to my mother," the young pirate who was once the slave Paki chuckled.
"Subira!" Gil exclaimed. "She's well?"
Paul nodded. "She's at the Cove. She's made a life there."
Jamie said, with the weight of days long past, "Shipwreck Cove's the place, if ever you need somewhere to run"
Gil stared. "You did tell me that!"
"It's the truth," Paul said. "You'll see."
"It seems so." Gil put an unsteady hand on Paul's arm. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”
*
There was one new face that was soon made known to Gil: Jamie’s father. He was taller than Jamie, though not by much, and looked nearly as young - too young to have a grown son. He was darker of hair and eye, too, eyes held a strange, sober light, as though he’d seen things no mortal man should see.
“But… Jamie told me…” stammered Gil.
Jamie said airily, "Aye, but that’s all changed. I'll tell you how it came about later - it's a great story! Captain William Turner, meet Gilbert Pennistone.”
Captain Turner shook Gil’s hand, but said, “I believe they haven't told you, and it shouldn't wait longer. I’ve some ill news for you, lad. About your father.”
Gil blanched. “He… he was wounded, wasn’t he? The day they took me hostage.”
Captain Sparrow said, “Aye. But he sent word to us, about you being taken, and the plantation besieged, as it were.”
Gil's throat tightened, but he managed, "They didn't tell me, but I knew he… was gone. When they said I'd hang." He swallowed hard. "But you saw him?"
“Jack and I were with him at the end, Gil." Captain Turner put a warm hand on Gil's shoulder, and this, and something in his voice, made his words more bearable. "I won't tell you not to grieve -- that would be foolish. But you should know that he did what needed to be done, and lived long enough to see his people to safety. He lost everything, but he died a hero.”
*
Mr. Gibbs led Gil, accompanied by Jamie and Paul, down into the screened off area of the hold that served as the Pearl's surgery. The boys helped Gil strip off his shirt and their reactions to the sight of his back did not encourage the hope that the tending of it would be painless. Paki's -- Paul's -- eyes widened, as did Jamie's, accompanied by a low whistle. Mr. Gibbs tsked and matter-of-factly fetched a bottle of rum.
Gil protested, "It's not that bad, is it? The gaoler had me doused with sea water, twice a day. Bloody cold, and hurt like the devil."
"Healin' fine, most of it," Mr. Gibbs assured him, heartily. "Sea water, aye, that works all right. It's just a couple o' spots that've gone a mite septic. I'll have to clean 'em, and it may be a bit of a trial. Drink up, lad."
Gil obediently took a swig, but wrinkled his nose at the taste and burn of it. "Gah! Haven't touched anything stronger than wine since that night the shed burned."
"Me, too!" laughed Jamie. His smile faded. "Was your da very hard on you after we'd taken our leave that night?"
Gil made a wry face. "Couldn't sit for a few days. But I was expecting worse, and he didn't stay angry with me, God be thanked, though it took the plantation some time to recover from the loss." He shook his head and glanced between Jamie and Paul. "I don't know what happened that night. He wasn't himself. He was a good man, and of sound reason, most of the time."
Jamie shrugged. "It was a big loss, like you said. And captains don't like having their authority questioned."
Gil nodded. "That's true." He eyed Jamie. "How did you fare? Did your uncle thrash you?"
"Ha!" Jamie scoffed. "If only it had been that quick and simple. We had Paul and his mother with us, and everyone aboard the Pearl knew what'd happened. There was no question my mother was going to find out. Uncle Jack told me he saw no reason to trouble himself when he could predict to a nicety what she'd do, whether he thrashed me or no. He was right. I was forbidden to sail as crew on any ship, and on the Pearl at all, for a whole year."
"Oh, Jamie!" Gil could well believe his friend would've chafed dreadfully at such a harsh punishment.
"You had me to keep you company," Paul pointed out.
"Aye. That helped," agreed Jamie. "Except when Gentleman Joe took you off for three months. But you did ease the pain a bit." He grinned, and put his arm around Paul's shoulders.
"Speakin' of pain," Mr. Gibbs broke in, pointedly, "take another good drink of that rum, lad. You three'll have plenty of time to pick up old threads, but I've got things to do topside."
"Aye, sir," said Gil. He took another swallow of the distasteful stuff. "Ugh!" He shuddered, all over. "I can't do it! Please, Mr. Gibbs, I'll be still. Jamie can stay and squeeze my hand, like he did that day that turtle got me. And Paul, too." He held out his hands, and Jamie and Paul each took one, both of them grinning like fools. Just like he was himself.
*
In spite of yet being dressed like some la-di-dah Spanish nancy-boy (as Pintel put it to Ragetti, sotto voce), Captain Jack Sparrow strode about the Pearl's deck, barking fierce commands right and left, and his crew scurried to do his bidding. Some manned the sweeps, some swarmed up the ratlines and prepared to set the sails as soon as they were clear of the inlet. Satisfied that all was being carried out as ordered, Jack ascended the steps to the quarterdeck where Captain Turner was manning the helm.
"Gil seems a likely lad," Will commented.
"Aye -- though he'll have it in for the Spanish from now on, I'll wager. Can't really blame 'im." Jack ran a finger under his tight collar. "Lace and black velvet. In this climate! I ask you!"
"Now don't try to tell me you didn't relish that masquerade."
Jack smirked. "Went off well, if I do say so meself. Always gives me pleasure to tweak Spanish noses. Everything tied up nice an' neat."
Will raised a brow. “What about Elizabeth?”
Jack’s smirk vanished. “What about her? I sent a message off to her!”
“You told her we were going out for a few days of artillery practice. We’ve been gone three weeks, and it’ll be four by the time we get home.”
“Still the truth. As I recall, we had artillery practice in spades.”
“Hmmm.” Will nodded, skeptically. “Somehow I doubt she'll see a pitched battle with the Spanish as artillery practice.”
“She'll be fine," Jack soothed. "Everyone's safe and sound. And if Her Nibs' feathers're a touch ruffled, just think of the delightful time we'll have smoothin' 'em down, eh?”
Will laughed. “You’ve had a great deal of practice at that over the years, haven’t you?”
“Got it down to a science,” Jack assured him. “No worries, lad. I’ll give you lessons.”
The End
Except for an epilogue to the Epilogue I was thinking about… *G*
Chapter One: Caught Out
Chapter Two: Pirate Princeling
Chapter Three: A Disparity of Circumstances
Chapter Four: Vile Misfortune
Chapter Five: Hero's Choice
~ Epilogue ~
The execution was to take place two days hence. Only two more days of pain, cold, filth, and bad food, and the plague of just thinking. Could he or Father have done anything different? Was there any way they could have suspected the traitorous perfidy of the Spanish? Claiming the island was theirs, that they had some right to the land, to the plantation his father had built with endless toil and care. To their home. Gilbert was glad his mother had been dead and gone these three years, for surely the events of the last month would have killed her. As they would likely kill his father. If he was even still alive.
Gilbert sighed, and shifted in an effort to ease his half-healed back, and looked out through the small barred window, high up on the wall, through which cold air entered and the stars could be seen. Perhaps he'd be up there among the stars, soon. Or with his mother. He thought about praying, but couldn't make his mind turn to it, not when the stones bit into him, the unfortunate in the next cell moaned in distress, and a rat slipped from the crack in the wall to lap at the slop his gaolers had left him for dinner.
He closed his eyes on his tiny, ugly world, and, after a long while, slept.
*
There was a voice, making demands. Demanding... him.
Gilbert's eyes flicked open. It was morning, but only dull gray light shone in through the window -- there was fog outside, all too common in this area of the coast of Cuba. And the voice was growing irate.
"Insolent dog! If you impede me, the Viceroy will surely hear of it. This young Pennistone -- barbaric name! -- he is to be taken to Havana for questioning. The papers are in order, you said it yourself. The Viceroy is fully capable of seeing his sentence carried out -- after we extract the information we need. Come to Havana, if you insist on witnessing the execution."
There was some argument, the exchange between the newcomer and the resident gaoler becoming too rapid for Gil to follow, though it steadily increased in volume. Gilbert had learned some Spanish, a skill he'd needed to facilitate communication with their erstwhile buyers, but the Viceroy's man was speaking the pure Castilian and was more difficult to understand. He must be someone important. And questioning: a frisson of fear swept through Gil. The Inquisition was yet a fixture with the Spanish.
The argument subsided, the gaoler yielding reluctantly, and several sets of booted feet sounded their owners' approach down the stone corridor. Gil struggled to stand: they would not find him languishing, no matter what. Lord, he was sore, though, and he still felt a faint chill and ache of fever. But he forced himself to stand straight and tall. His clothes might be ragged and stained, he might be thin and filthy, he might still be barely seventeen, but he would show them how a man faces his enemies... even unto death.
*
The Viceroy's man was very odd. Gilbert studied him as the open carriage made its way across the yard, out the gates of the fortress, and thence slowly along the road through the little town, crowded just now, for it was market day. Gil was seated between the man's two silent guardsmen, his wrists tied before him, and Don Ascención had the entire wide seat opposite. He looked a right villain, too handsome, too sure of himself, a supercilious smile curving his lips and a glint in his black eyes as he lounged, studying Gil in return. He wasn't a big man, no more than medium height, but he was well-built, slim and wiry. He cut a striking figure in his elegant black clothes, adorned with lace, diamonds, and gold, and Gil suspected that the jewel-hilted sword he wore was more than just an ornament. He also wore a wig, long, black and curling, very unusual for a Spaniard. The word fop came strongly to mind.
Fop or no, he was still dangerous, and when they finally reached the city gates and turned south onto the coast road, rather than north, toward Havana, Gilbert frowned. After a moment said in his best Spanish, "Where are you taking me? Havana lies in the other direction."
"Ah! You are a bright boy. Too bright for your own good. Be silent. You will know where we go, presently."
Gil's eyebrows twitched together. Where could they be taking him, and for what purpose? The carriage was moving more quickly now, the crowds coming to market thinning rapidly. Soon he would be entirely alone with this man and his underlings. He was suddenly aware of how very helpless he was, and turned his head so that Don Ascención might not see his fear, staring blindly through the fog toward the sound of the waves on the rocks.
Another few minutes passed in silence, and they left behind the last of the straggling market-goers. The coachman cracked his whip over the horses and they broke into a brisk trot. The carriage was well-sprung, but there was increased movement even so, jarring Gil's back. He shifted, sitting up straighter in an effort to ease it.
But then Don Ascención leaned forward, and nodded to the guard on Gil's right side. To Gil's surprise, the guard got up, and the two switched places. Gil shrank away as the Don settled close to him, and then gasped when the man produced a knife, shining and wicked sharp!
"What are you doing?" Gil demanded, hair on end, voice squeaking shamefully.
For the first time, Don Ascención grinned, showing teeth that were very white... and gold! And to Gil's astonishment, he said in English, "Do you not know me, Gilbert Pennistone? Jamie thought you would." And then he took the knife and slit the cords that bound Gilbert's wrists.
Gil stared. "Jack Sparrow?" he breathed.
Jack Sparrow rolled his eyes, and said, "It's Captain Sparrow. Captain." He looked sadly at his cohorts. "Why do they never remember?"
*
The rest of the journey was like a dream for Gil. The fog began to burn off, and the horses moved along even more rapidly.
"Just hang on," said Captain Sparrow. "We'll have you off Spanish land in a trice. Plenty of time to talk when we get to the Pearl. "
Gil nodded, too overcome to speak anyway.
A few minutes later, the carriage slowed and they rounded a corner and stopped, overlooking a secluded inlet. The Black Pearl lay anchored in the middle of it, like a ship from a fairy tale, a creature of mist and shadow. Gil couldn't help his gasp at the sight. This was real, he was among friends. "Jamie's down there?" he managed to croak.
"Aye," said Jack, "and lots of others you'll remember. And a few you'll be meeting for the first time."
The driver was paid off and drove away. There was a steep, narrow path down the cliff face to the beach which they descended carefully. A longboat was waiting, and before he knew it, Gil was climbing the Jacob's ladder up the Pearl's side, to Jamie, who was waiting for him at the top.
Grown up, he was, but not grown out of friendship. Jamie threw his arms around Gil, pulling him close, and Gil ignored the discomfort and returned the favor. "Gil!" said Jamie, "I was afraid we might be too late."
"Careful of his back," said Jamie's uncle, stepping onto the deck behind Gil.
Jamie released Gil, and frowned. "Why?"
"Flogged," Jack said shortly.
Jamie looked horrified -- and angry. "Why?"
Gil shrugged, wincing. "Insolence, they said. I wasn't very tractable. It was only a dozen, but it cut me up more than you'd expect."
A familiar voice spoke. "We'll take a look at that in the surgery, get you fixed up, eh lad?"
"Mr. Gibbs!"
"Aye!" said Jamie. "And here's someone else you know." He drew forward a tall, dusky-skinned lad with speaking eyes and a smile that held a hint of uncertainty.
Gil gasped. "Paki?"
Jamie broke in. "He's 'Paul' now. Gentleman Joe said it was safer."
"Except to my mother," the young pirate who was once the slave Paki chuckled.
"Subira!" Gil exclaimed. "She's well?"
Paul nodded. "She's at the Cove. She's made a life there."
Jamie said, with the weight of days long past, "Shipwreck Cove's the place, if ever you need somewhere to run"
Gil stared. "You did tell me that!"
"It's the truth," Paul said. "You'll see."
"It seems so." Gil put an unsteady hand on Paul's arm. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”
*
There was one new face that was soon made known to Gil: Jamie’s father. He was taller than Jamie, though not by much, and looked nearly as young - too young to have a grown son. He was darker of hair and eye, too, eyes held a strange, sober light, as though he’d seen things no mortal man should see.
“But… Jamie told me…” stammered Gil.
Jamie said airily, "Aye, but that’s all changed. I'll tell you how it came about later - it's a great story! Captain William Turner, meet Gilbert Pennistone.”
Captain Turner shook Gil’s hand, but said, “I believe they haven't told you, and it shouldn't wait longer. I’ve some ill news for you, lad. About your father.”
Gil blanched. “He… he was wounded, wasn’t he? The day they took me hostage.”
Captain Sparrow said, “Aye. But he sent word to us, about you being taken, and the plantation besieged, as it were.”
Gil's throat tightened, but he managed, "They didn't tell me, but I knew he… was gone. When they said I'd hang." He swallowed hard. "But you saw him?"
“Jack and I were with him at the end, Gil." Captain Turner put a warm hand on Gil's shoulder, and this, and something in his voice, made his words more bearable. "I won't tell you not to grieve -- that would be foolish. But you should know that he did what needed to be done, and lived long enough to see his people to safety. He lost everything, but he died a hero.”
*
Mr. Gibbs led Gil, accompanied by Jamie and Paul, down into the screened off area of the hold that served as the Pearl's surgery. The boys helped Gil strip off his shirt and their reactions to the sight of his back did not encourage the hope that the tending of it would be painless. Paki's -- Paul's -- eyes widened, as did Jamie's, accompanied by a low whistle. Mr. Gibbs tsked and matter-of-factly fetched a bottle of rum.
Gil protested, "It's not that bad, is it? The gaoler had me doused with sea water, twice a day. Bloody cold, and hurt like the devil."
"Healin' fine, most of it," Mr. Gibbs assured him, heartily. "Sea water, aye, that works all right. It's just a couple o' spots that've gone a mite septic. I'll have to clean 'em, and it may be a bit of a trial. Drink up, lad."
Gil obediently took a swig, but wrinkled his nose at the taste and burn of it. "Gah! Haven't touched anything stronger than wine since that night the shed burned."
"Me, too!" laughed Jamie. His smile faded. "Was your da very hard on you after we'd taken our leave that night?"
Gil made a wry face. "Couldn't sit for a few days. But I was expecting worse, and he didn't stay angry with me, God be thanked, though it took the plantation some time to recover from the loss." He shook his head and glanced between Jamie and Paul. "I don't know what happened that night. He wasn't himself. He was a good man, and of sound reason, most of the time."
Jamie shrugged. "It was a big loss, like you said. And captains don't like having their authority questioned."
Gil nodded. "That's true." He eyed Jamie. "How did you fare? Did your uncle thrash you?"
"Ha!" Jamie scoffed. "If only it had been that quick and simple. We had Paul and his mother with us, and everyone aboard the Pearl knew what'd happened. There was no question my mother was going to find out. Uncle Jack told me he saw no reason to trouble himself when he could predict to a nicety what she'd do, whether he thrashed me or no. He was right. I was forbidden to sail as crew on any ship, and on the Pearl at all, for a whole year."
"Oh, Jamie!" Gil could well believe his friend would've chafed dreadfully at such a harsh punishment.
"You had me to keep you company," Paul pointed out.
"Aye. That helped," agreed Jamie. "Except when Gentleman Joe took you off for three months. But you did ease the pain a bit." He grinned, and put his arm around Paul's shoulders.
"Speakin' of pain," Mr. Gibbs broke in, pointedly, "take another good drink of that rum, lad. You three'll have plenty of time to pick up old threads, but I've got things to do topside."
"Aye, sir," said Gil. He took another swallow of the distasteful stuff. "Ugh!" He shuddered, all over. "I can't do it! Please, Mr. Gibbs, I'll be still. Jamie can stay and squeeze my hand, like he did that day that turtle got me. And Paul, too." He held out his hands, and Jamie and Paul each took one, both of them grinning like fools. Just like he was himself.
*
In spite of yet being dressed like some la-di-dah Spanish nancy-boy (as Pintel put it to Ragetti, sotto voce), Captain Jack Sparrow strode about the Pearl's deck, barking fierce commands right and left, and his crew scurried to do his bidding. Some manned the sweeps, some swarmed up the ratlines and prepared to set the sails as soon as they were clear of the inlet. Satisfied that all was being carried out as ordered, Jack ascended the steps to the quarterdeck where Captain Turner was manning the helm.
"Gil seems a likely lad," Will commented.
"Aye -- though he'll have it in for the Spanish from now on, I'll wager. Can't really blame 'im." Jack ran a finger under his tight collar. "Lace and black velvet. In this climate! I ask you!"
"Now don't try to tell me you didn't relish that masquerade."
Jack smirked. "Went off well, if I do say so meself. Always gives me pleasure to tweak Spanish noses. Everything tied up nice an' neat."
Will raised a brow. “What about Elizabeth?”
Jack’s smirk vanished. “What about her? I sent a message off to her!”
“You told her we were going out for a few days of artillery practice. We’ve been gone three weeks, and it’ll be four by the time we get home.”
“Still the truth. As I recall, we had artillery practice in spades.”
“Hmmm.” Will nodded, skeptically. “Somehow I doubt she'll see a pitched battle with the Spanish as artillery practice.”
“She'll be fine," Jack soothed. "Everyone's safe and sound. And if Her Nibs' feathers're a touch ruffled, just think of the delightful time we'll have smoothin' 'em down, eh?”
Will laughed. “You’ve had a great deal of practice at that over the years, haven’t you?”
“Got it down to a science,” Jack assured him. “No worries, lad. I’ll give you lessons.”
The End
Except for an epilogue to the Epilogue I was thinking about… *G*